The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,28

dipped, Charles rushed to clarify. “I am not passing judgment. I am pointing out that you were only invited to join the ranks in the first place because they had a need of you . . . but when they received the legitimacy that your presence provided, and you were married to Sylvia, you ceased attending. You let them to their group, as you should have. However, people need choices,” Charles pointed out. “Why should there be just one club? A need was identified . . . and as such, there should be many places that allow people to come together and share in ideas and frustrations and beliefs.”

This time, a different silence met Charles’s words, this one neither mocking nor confused, but contemplative. It was the sound of two men who recognized the truth in what Charles spoke . . . even as St. John was determined to resist it.

“It is a society,” St. John said, desperation in his voice.

Charles grinned. “Well, again, we are a club . . . and we are going to be a club like no other. We shall meet, and our membership will include both men and women.”

Always proper, St. John tried once more to interject his pragmatic reasoning to derail Charles’s idea. “And just where do you think you are going to hold meetings for men and women, in a way that society isn’t scandalized? You’re a rogue,” the other man said bluntly. “Landon is a rogue.”

“Ohhh, I prefer rake.” Landon kicked back his seat, balancing on the hind legs of his chair once more.

“And of a sudden,” St. John continued purposefully over that amusement-laden interjection from their friend, “proper mothers are going to simply let their proper, marriage-minded daughters visit your household?”

No. In a world where a lady’s unsullied reputation was the currency upon which empires were built, the ton would never allow it, and yet . . . there were . . . ways.

When St. John had concluded that diatribe, Charles wagged a finger under his desperate friend’s nose. “Ah, you shall leave those details to me.”

Raising his drink, Landon laughed, and touched the rim of his snifter to Charles’s. “Oh, now this I am going to enjoy.”

St. John dropped his poor head to the table, and proceeded to knock it lightly against the smooth mahogany surface. And with his head down, he raised his glass and touched it to Charles’s and Landon’s still-raised drinks.

For the first time in a very, very long while, Charles was enjoying himself, too . . . and all thanks to Miss Emma Gately.

Chapter 5

THE LONDONER

LADIES ARE FLEEING

The Mismatch Society has seen a fluctuation in their membership, which can be explained only by reasonable fathers, brothers, and guardians at last saying “Enough is enough” to the nonsense that has been tolerated far too long.

M. FAIRPOINT

Each meeting of the Mismatch Society began with a formal attendance being checked.

Given how precarious each lady’s ability to participate in the female-centered group, in fact, was, verifying just who was amongst them and who was missing had been a vital part of each session. Because when members disappeared, there were specific reasons for those absences. Always, it had to do with disapproving parents or guardians or brothers serving as guardians, who eventually tired of “shows of spirit and disobedience” from a lady who was in attendance.

Such challenges had become less frequent following Sylvia’s marriage to the much-respected and highly proper viscount.

Which made the abrupt and sudden change to their membership so stark and alarming.

For in a fortnight, there could be no doubting their numbers were somehow dwindling . . . by five, to be exact.

Lady Sylvia had called an emergency meeting—only the second since the Mismatch Society’s inception. This time, however, the meeting had been called not at their usual location on Waverton Street, but at Lady Sylvia’s new residence, also home to four of their members, the three eldest Kearsley sisters and their mother.

A din filled the parlor as the remaining seventeen ladies spoke loudly amongst one another, outrage lending their voices increased volume.

“It is shocking. And upsetting . . . ,” Cora Kearsley was saying, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. “I so enjoyed Miss Dobson’s c-contributions.”

“There, there.” The young lady’s mother, the dowager viscountess, used a white kerchief to dab at Cora’s damp cheeks.

Seated between Olivia and Isla, Emma watched the pair. From the moment the Kearsleys had joined the society, they’d been accompanied occasionally by the now dowager viscountess. It was a show of maternal support